


A Brush With Death

by KaelinaLovesLomaris



Series: Whumptober 2019 - FFXV [12]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Lots of It, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Betrayal, Blood, Gen, Hurt Gladiolus Amicitia, Hurt Noctis Lucis Caelum, Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Character Death, Video Game Mechanics, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelinaLovesLomaris/pseuds/KaelinaLovesLomaris
Summary: Drautos decides he’s done playing the long game and would rather just take Noctis out.Part of my collection of Whumptober 2019 prompts.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Titus Drautos | Glauca & Noctis Lucis Caelum
Series: Whumptober 2019 - FFXV [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505405
Comments: 47
Kudos: 235





	1. Bleeding Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 23 Prompt: Bleeding Out
> 
> Warning: this is the bloodiest thing I have ever written. Very graphic depictions of violence and injuries. And (temporary) major character death.

He’d stepped away only for a moment to answer a phone call, waving Gladio away when his Shield had moved to follow him. In hindsight, he’d think it should have seemed odd that Drautos had called him directly, but then the captain of the Kingsglaive _had_ mentioned something about wanting to work with him on some aspects of his training, and he’d brushed off every scheduling attempt brought to him by Ignis.

Magic sizzles behind him, the only warning Noctis has before pain erupts in his chest. He stumbles forward with the force of the blow, gasping as the air is punched out of his lungs.

 _Warp-strike,_ his brain helpfully informs him. He looks down at the point of the blade protruding from his chest, frowning at the familiarity of it. His vision swims as he registers that that is _his_ blood dripping from the blade.

Noctis draws in an agonizing breath to scream for Gladio, but a hand clamps down over his mouth, smothering it. He catches a glimpse of red leather on the arm the hand is attached to, and he feels sick for reasons other than the sword sticking out of his chest.

_Drautos, you traitorous bastard!_

He doesn’t want to believe it. The man is practically an uncle, and he’s been a loyal member of Regis’s inner circle for as long as Noctis has been alive. But that is _his_ sword and _his_ leather jacket, and Noctis doubts anyone would go to the trouble of trying to steal or replicate them just for this.

The hand over his mouth muffles his shriek as he is pulled back farther onto the sword. His vision sparks and goes black for a moment. When his eyes focus again, his head is leaning back against Drautos’s shoulder and he is looking up into the face of a man who five minutes ago Noctis would have sworn loved him.

He whimpers, feeling the sting of the betrayal stronger than the physical pain. Tears well in his eyes even as nausea stirs in his stomach. He sobs against the hand pressed to his mouth, closing his eyes to avoid seeing Drautos’s cold expression.

 _Why?_ is the only thought in his mind. He can’t understand what would drive him to do this, and he doubts he will ever get an answer. Already he can feel the strength ebbing from him with the blood that is soaking his shirt.

The sword slides in him, a sickening drag, and Noctis grasps the blade before he thinks about it, sharp edges slicing into his hands, spilling more of his blood, but he doesn’t want Drautos to remove it. He knows his time is up the instant the sword leaves his body. He’s on borrowed time as it is.

He can taste the blood on his tongue, his throat is thick with it, and he coughs into Drautos’s hand. There’s nowhere for the blood to go, and he gags on it. He tries to swallow it, but he keeps coughing up more until he thinks he’ll suffocate in his own blood.

Noctis’s legs buckle, and Drautos lets him slide to the ground. He keeps a firm grip over his mouth, despite the blood Noctis can feel running down his chin, following him down to kneel behind him. He pulls Noctis against him, and there’s almost something intimate in the way he cradles Noctis. His other hand comes up to brush through Noctis’s hair, and for a moment Noctis wants to believe that he hadn’t wanted to do it, but there is no care in his eyes.

“Why?” he murmurs against Drautos’s hand, the pressure behind his eyes finally spilling over onto his cheeks. Drautos brushes a tear away with his thumb.

“With you dead, the line of Lucis will end and your father’s spirit will break. This war will be over, and Insomnia will be justly destroyed for abandoning the outer territories.” There’s a cold passion in his voice, bitter and harsh, and Noctis flinches. He knew Drautos was a refugee, most of the Kingsglaive are, but he hadn’t thought he held it against them.

This wasn’t a recent change, wasn’t something he or his father had done. He hadn’t been bribed or blackmailed. This was the product of a festering hate he had always harbored, and he had finally grown tired of waiting.

Noctis’s hands are cold and he can’t keep his grip on the blade. It doesn’t matter anyways. Both of Drautos’s hands are on his face, not his sword, and he’s only delaying the inevitable. Noctis can’t fight in this condition. He knows he’s going to die, but he can’t quite summon the fear he thinks he should probably feel. He’s numb, distant.

Drautos runs a hand through Noctis’s hair one more time in a mocking facsimile of affection before both hands are gone from his face. There’s a small shift in the pressure in his chest, and Noctis chokes on a scream as the blade is ripped out of him. He tumbles forward, barely managing to catch himself with his hands before smashing his face into the ground, and spits the blood out of his mouth. He’s now on his hands and knees before Drautos, but he can’t find it in himself to be concerned about his lost dignity. His would-be uncle is going to kill him, meters away from his oblivious Shield.

Noctis doesn’t have the strength to fight as Drautos rests his sword against the back of his neck. He doesn’t have time or the breath to scream. Gladio may only be meters away, but he would never be fast enough. And even though Gladio is an excellent fighter, Drautos has decades more experience and the added bonus of access to the king’s magic. Noctis isn’t sure who would win in that fight, and he doesn’t want to be responsible for anybody else’s death today.

Blood spatters the ground beneath him as Noctis tries to breathe with ruined lungs. He’s not surprised Drautos isn’t content to just let the wound in his chest take him. The man knows the limitations of a phoenix down, knows as well as Noctis does that if he goes for the head, there’s no chance of revival.

Noctis chokes on the blood continuing to fill his mouth, and he spits it at Drautos.

“I hope the Niffs kill you,” he gasps between coughs. “I hope Cor hunts you down… like a daemon.” It’s taking the last of his flagging strength to force out the threats, but it’s all he can manage in his last moments, and he refuses to go down meekly.

Drautos doesn’t respond, just raises his sword for the final blow. Noctis closes his eyes, sending a final apology to Gladio, to Ignis, to his _dad_ , because Drautos is right, his death _will_ destroy Regis, and waits.

But the sword doesn’t fall, and Noctis summons the strength to lift his head at the sound of footsteps in time to watch Gladio throw himself at Drautos.

He’s never seen Gladio move with such fury. His strikes are heavier, faster, and even Drautos falls back under the initial onslaught. But it doesn’t take long for Drautos to recover, and it’s obvious Gladio had the advantage of surprise.

Noctis knows Gladio barely has a chance against Drautos, and he wants to beg Gladio to leave, abandon him and save himself, because at this point, there’s not much that can be done for Noctis. But he also knows that Drautos will never let Gladio live now that he has seen his treason. The only way out for Gladio is to defeat Drautos, and as much faith as Noctis has in his Shield, he’s not certain this is a fight he can win.

Noctis’s arms give out under him, and he collapses in a pool of his own blood. He knows he should try to stay awake, that if he falls asleep he’ll never wake up again, but he can’t keep his eyes open and his vision is going black regardless. He tries to focus on the clash of steel, the heavy footsteps of Gladio and Drautos’s lethal dance, but it takes more energy than he has left.

 _Astrals, please, give him strength,_ Noctis begs. It’s all he can do, and he’s sure it isn’t enough, doubts the Astrals are even paying him any attention, but he can’t even raise his hand to reach for his phone to call for help, so it will _have_ to be enough.

Every gargled breath is more blood than oxygen, each one weaker and more painful than the last, and Noctis isn’t sure how much time passes as his life ebbs away before he is startled out of his dying haze by the sound of a sword clattering to the ground and the slump of a body.

“Noctis!” Gladio screams his name before Noctis has time to wonder who won, and the rush of relief is painful.

Gladio is beside him in an instant, his hands in Noctis’s hair, and Noctis shies away from the memory of Drautos’s false affection. But this is Gladio, and there’s nothing artificial in the panicked way he grasps at Noctis, pulling him into his arms and wrapping himself around him as though he can shield him from death even now.

Noctis doesn’t want his last sight to be Drautos’s uncaring expression, so he forces his eyes open, but now he can see the guilt twisting his Shield’s face and he hates it.

“Noct! No, oh Astrals, _please_ no…” Gladio’s voice breaks, and what’s left of Noctis’s heart breaks with it. His ruined hand twitches, and it takes all his focus just to raise his arm enough to touch Gladio’s face. Gladio captures his hand in his, and Noctis doesn’t mind the pain as he laces their fingers together. He’s just glad that Gladio is holding him, that he’s not dying alone.

“Don’t… blame yourself,” he murmurs. He knows it’s an impossible request, knows Gladio will blame himself for the rest of his life, but he still needs to say it so Gladio knows that _Noctis_ doesn’t blame him.

“You’re not supposed to die before me, you idiot!” Gladio snarls. He is angry, but Noctis knows his grief and insecurity has always manifested as anger, knows that it’s not directed at him. Gladio is in pain, and it’s the only way he knows how to express it.

“‘m sorry, Gladdy.” Noctis can’t focus anymore, doesn’t know if the wetness on his cheeks is his own tears or Gladio’s, or maybe both. He can’t remember the last time he saw Gladio cry.

His eyes drift closed, and he can hear Gladio screaming but he can’t make out the words as painless darkness beckons.

* * *

He wakes with fire in his veins.

Noctis gasps, spine arching off the ground as life slams back into him, and he’s surprised when the breath doesn’t hurt. He claws at his chest; there’s still a worrying amount of blood soaking his clothes, but there’s no longer a hole punched through him. He rolls onto his side, coughing the remnants of blood out of his throat and mouth before retching.

“Easy, Noct.” There’s a soothing hand rubbing circles on his back, too small and gentle to be Gladio’s, and Noctis connects it with the familiar voice.

“Ignis?” he rasps.

“I’m here, Highness.” His voice is low and strained, but it is comforting to Noctis, and he takes a moment to rest and try to get his bearings. His entire body aches like he’s been trampled by a dualhorn, and he’s sticky with drying blood, but his body is somehow whole.

Noctis knows he shouldn’t be alive. In fact, he’s pretty sure he died, which means…

He finally pries his eyes open and looks down at his hands. The ashes of a phoenix feather still cling to his skin, and he is surrounded by the fading glow of magic. His eyes fall closed again. He’s been revived.

“Thank you,” Noctis says.

“Of course, Highness.” Ignis is still being unbearably gentle with him, as though he’s afraid Noctis will break. His hand hasn’t left his back, still a cautious pressure that is keeping Noctis grounded, but he has offered nothing more.

Noctis leverages himself up on his forearm, struggling to sit up, but he’s still weak and his arms tremble with the effort. Ignis supports him with sure hands, strong and steady despite their care, and he keeps a grip on Noctis’s shoulder until he stops swaying. Noctis appreciates the silent support. There’s no judgment in it, no condemnation or frustration with his weakness, and even just having Ignis with him helps calm the frantic racing of his heart.

It’s when Noctis finally turns his eyes on Ignis’s face that he sees all the emotions his advisor had managed to keep out of his voice. There are tear tracks down his face, and his eyes glisten behind bloody fingerprint-smudged glasses. His hands and clothes are covered in Noctis’s blood, and Noctis thinks that even all of Ignis’s skills won’t be enough to wash the fabric clean again.

Noctis throws himself at Ignis suddenly, burying his face in the side of Ignis’s neck. Ignis wraps his arms around Noctis, hesitantly at first, then tighter as Noctis clings to him.

Noctis feels Ignis’s breath hitch, and his advisor tilts his head to press his cheek against the top of Noctis’s head. One of his hands comes up to caress his hair, and Noctis stiffens, Drautos’s cold expression flashing behind his eyelids.

Ignis freezes against him, hand dropping from his hair, and Noctis sobs into his shoulder. He curses Drautos for taking away that method of comfort, a gesture Ignis has used since they were children.

Despite his flinch, he wants Ignis’s hand back in his hair, wants his caring fingers to replace the memory of Drautos’s cruel ones. Instead, they stroke down his back as Ignis honors his instinctual unspoken rejection, and Noctis doesn’t know how to ask him not to.

He doesn’t deserve someone like Ignis. Ignis, who would come halfway across the city to revive his childhood friend while kneeling in his blood and somehow remain calm enough to talk him through his first revival. Who could pick up on Noctis’s every twitch and adjust to them without letting his own emotions and desires get in the way, despite that Ignis has to be just as scared, if not more, than Noctis.

He also doesn’t deserve someone like Gladio, who would throw himself at a man he barely has a prayer of winning a fight against to save someone who was already dying.

That thought almost makes Noctis’s heart stop again, and he pulls away from Ignis.

“Where’s Gladio?” It was unusual for his Shield to stray far from his side when he was injured. If Noctis so much as stubbed his toe, Gladio would hover until he was sure Noctis was going to be fine. So if he wasn’t around when Noctis had literally _died_...

What if Drautos had injured him? Noctis would be surprised if Gladio had managed to fight the captain of the Kingsglaive and get away without a scratch, and with all of Noctis’s blood spilled everywhere, it is impossible to tell if any of it is Gladio’s.

Ignis’s mouth presses into a thin line. “He is cooling his head. He was nearly in hysterics by the time I got here, and was in no fit state to help you through the revival process. It is disorienting enough without a panicked Shield hovering.”

Noctis relaxes. If he had been seriously injured, Ignis would have said something.

“Does he know it was… successful?” he asks, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. There’s never a guarantee that a phoenix down will work. There are time and cause of death parameters that make it more or less likely, but never a guarantee. Noctis would not have been hopeful of his own chance, had he been in Ignis or Gladio’s place.

“Yes. I would never have been able to make him leave your side before he knew.”

His relief wars with his guilt over making them worry. He has come close to death before, very close, but he has never actually _died_ before today. He winces as he remembers the pain on Gladio’s face as he died in his arms.

“Are you alright, Noct?” Ignis asks.

Noctis nods. The phoenix down has done its job, as far as Noctis can tell. He is breathing and no longer bleeding out. He imagines the aching and weakness will go away with time.

He doesn’t remember the experience of being dead. It is like he simply fell into a dreamless sleep and was unexpectedly awoken, but he has the vague feeling that he has forgotten something. It’s unsettling, and he doesn’t want to think about it.

Noctis stands on shaky legs with Ignis’s help, his eyes seeking out Drautos’s body. Gladio had been thorough, beheading the traitor as he had tried to do to Noctis. He knows it is practical, and exactly what Gladio should have done, and he feels a sick sort of vindication, but it still makes nausea curl in Noctis’s stomach.

He stumbles forward a few steps before he regains the feel of his legs under himself. He ignores Ignis’s concerned murmur of his name behind him and calls the Engine Blade to his hand.

He stares down at Drautos’s body, blood soaking his leather jacket around the slash across his chest from Gladio’s sword. His own sword, still stained with Noctis’s blood, is lying on the ground, inches from his still hand, the one he had run through Noctis’s hair. He contemplates it for a moment, kicking it with his toe to hear it clatter against the ground before crouching to pick it up and stashing it in the Armiger.

He stands above Drautos and tightens his grip on the Engine Blade before raising it and plunging it down into Drautos’s heart with a scream.

How _dare_ this man claim to care about him? How _dare_ he stand at Regis’s side, at his back, all those years and not mean a word of his vows of loyalty? How dare he hold their trust for years and drag it out and make them _love_ him before betraying them...

Unexpected grief rises in him and he drops to his knees at Drautos’s side, tears spilling down his cheeks. He screams again, this time in anguish, and he hunches over, arms wrapped around himself, and presses his forehead to his would-be uncle’s chest. He knows, somewhere, that he should not be grieving over the traitor who had killed him, but he can’t hold back the tears.

Dimly, he hears Ignis and Gladio calling his name and their running footsteps behind him before a hand touches his shoulder. He doesn’t know which of his friends’ it is, but he shakes it off. He doesn’t want to think of their disappointment in him when they realize he is crying over Drautos’s death and not his own. He just wants them to leave him alone to mourn, to not see his weakness in the face of this betrayal. 

But Ignis sits next to him and reaches out to brush his hand against his hair before stopping himself. He starts to pull away.

“No,” Noctis croaks. He grabs Ignis’s hand and then immediately lets go, embarrassed.

Ignis’s eyes are soft when he catches Noctis’s gaze. He slowly rests his hand back on Noctis’s head, twining his fingers through his hair, and watches him carefully.

“Is this alright?” he asks, concerned.

Noctis nods, tilting his head into the contact. It’s not, he can still feel Drautos’s touch, but he refuses to let him ruin this, so he will let Ignis run his fingers through his hair as much as he wants until the memories are gone.

He leans into Ignis until he’s pressing his face into his shoulder again, and Ignis wraps his free arm around him. He tries to hold back the tears, tries to tell himself that he shouldn’t be crying, but it just makes breathing painful.

He hears Gladio settle himself on the ground next to them, and he places his hand on Noctis’s shoulder, gently rubbing his shoulder with his thumb. Ignis rests his head against Noctis’s.

“It’s okay, Noct. It’s okay,” Ignis murmurs against his ear. “You have the right to mourn.”

Noctis sobs, and Ignis holds him through the tears, until they’re spent and he’s worn himself out. He’s too exhausted to protest as Gladio scoops him up in his arms, cradling him carefully against his chest, and carries him out of the alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now here’s a question: if Noctis dies before becoming king, does he still join the Lucii? Or not, because he was never a king?
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr at [prince-noctisluciscaelum](https://prince-noctisluciscaelum.tumblr.com)!


	2. Secret Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gladio and Ignis deal with the fallout of Drautos's assassination attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 24 Prompt: Secret Injury
> 
> Yes, I'm still working on 2019's Whumptober prompts. Yes, I'm planning on doing 2020's. Help.

Gladio cradles Noctis in his arms as he follows Ignis, his prince exhausted from his first experience with revival and the subsequent emotional upheaval. He still can’t shake the sight and feel of Noctis dying in his arms, the terrifying stillness of his body after he gave up his last breath, and Gladio holds him close enough that he can feel Noct’s heartbeat against his own chest.

Noctis’s breathing has evened out in sleep, and Gladio savors the sound of each inhale, the warmth of each exhale against his shoulder. He has always known that it was likely he would someday be faced with his prince dying, but he had not been prepared for it, for the raw fear he had felt at the sight of Noctis collapsed at the feet of a man he trusted and loved, for his hands to be slick with Noctis’s blood, for Noctis to insist that it was _not his fault_ , even though he knew it was.

He never should have left Noct’s side.

Gladio shudders, trying to blink away the memories, and he clutches Noctis tighter. He gasps, his steps faltering, as the action grinds his ribs together.

“Are you alright, Gladio?” Ignis asks, his voice still subdued but filled with genuine concern.

“I’m fine, Iggy.” Gladio tries to keep his voice steady, not let any of the pain he’s feeling seep into it, but he’s not sure how successful he is. Ignis is the most Astrals-darned perceptive person he has ever met, his eyes sharp as a griffon’s despite the glasses, and Gladio _is_ in a lot of pain.

Ignis frowns, and Gladio hurriedly takes another step to cut off any protest he might make. He doesn’t want to deal with Ignis’s fussing right now, and he doesn’t want to take anyone’s attention away from Noctis. Gladio will be fine, but Noctis is going to need help dealing with everything that happened.

Ignis had parked his car as close to the side alley as he could. He slips ahead of Gladio now to open the trunk, and he pulls out a couple of blankets. He spreads them out over the back seat of the car. Gladio grimaces as he looks down at Noct in his arms. They really are covered in blood, all three of them. Even though the phoenix down should have taken care of all of Noctis’s injuries, his first stop once they get back to the Citadel will be the medical wing. He has lost far too much blood to risk it.

Ignis finishes arranging the blankets and gestures at the open back door of the car for Gladio. There’s not much room for Gladio to work with, but he manages to maneuver Noctis into the car and settle him in the back seat without waking him. Ignis waits until Gladio gets both himself and Noctis’s seat belts buckled before even starting the car, as always, and even though Gladio understands, he still chafes at the delay. He wants Noctis safely ensconced in the Citadel, in the care of the doctors, as soon as possible. It’s unlikely Drautos was working alone, not with the kind of influence that man had - especially over a group of refugees, people who already have motive to hate the Crown, even if those in the Kingsglaive have been thoroughly vetted.

It takes entirely too long to reach the Citadel. Ignis drives as he always does when there’s a situation: careful but barely pushing the speed limit to just this side of what is considered acceptable, always conscious of not only the safety of the citizens on the road, but also his reputation, to avoid appearing like he thinks he’s above the law, even if no law enforcement officer would dare to ticket Ignis Scientia.

He calls ahead to the Citadel to apprise them of the situation, his phone on speaker as he drives, but Gladio is far too engrossed in watching Noctis breathe to pay much attention to the specifics of what is said.

Ignis maneuvers his car into the parking space reserved for him in the underground garage set aside for the royal family and close members of their retinues. Gladio is grateful for the privacy it affords them now, as he scoops up a still-asleep Noct, ever careful of his ribs. It will be impossible to get Noctis all the way to the medical wing without being seen, but at least Citadel staff is better than the public eye and the possibility of reporters.

Ignis does his best to vet each hallway before they turn down it, avoiding the busier ones and taking a winding, backwards route to the medical wing. Gladio trails after him, letting Ignis block Noctis from view, and glares anyone they come across into silence. He suspects the look on Ignis’s face is just as forbidding.

His dad, the king, and Cor are waiting for them when he carries Noctis into the Citadel’s medical wing. When Ignis steps aside to let them catch a glimpse of Noctis, all of their eyes, already wide at the amount of blood covering them, go wider.

“What happened?” Clarus demands. From what Gladio had heard, Ignis had been vague on the phone; despite the high level of encryption on their Crown-issued phones, with a traitor in their midst it was better to leave details for in-person.

King Regis reaches for Noctis when Gladio stops in front of him, running his free hand through Noctis’s hair. His other hand clutches tightly at his cane, and Gladio notices that Clarus has a firm, steadying grip on the king’s elbow. Striking at Noctis was _smart_ , if the goal was to bring Lucis to its knees. It isn’t common knowledge of course, but being the king’s Shield’s son makes him privy to more information than most, and the fact is that King Regis would choose his son over the kingdom with barely a thought. Those closest to him doubt he would survive long past something happening to his son. Maybe not the best quality in a king, but Gladio can hardly blame him, not when he feels the same way about Noctis.

“Drautos happened,” Gladio spits, answering his dad’s question.

“What?” Three pairs of eyes snap to his face, away from the prince cradled in his arms. The king’s hand stills in Noct’s hair.

“We had a traitor in our midst,” Ignis explains calmly. Gladio knows him well enough to read the uneasy tension in the set of his lips and the angle of his eyebrows, but his voice is remarkably steady. “It is yet unclear if there are more. Noctis was unable to elaborate on anything Drautos might have said to him before the exhaustion caught up to him.” His lips press tightly together for a moment before he continues. “I had to revive him.”

King Regis chokes. “Is he…” His voice is barely a whisper, and he moves his hand from Noctis’s hair to his neck, fingers seeking a pulse despite the obvious rise and fall of Noctis’s chest.

“He’s fine. The down took. There’s not a scratch remaining on him that I could see, but we thought it best to have him checked over just in case. He did lose a lot of blood.”

Regis relaxes, nodding. He returns to petting Noct’s hair, careful not to tug at it where it’s matted with drying blood. Gladio isn’t sure if it’s just his imagination or not, but he thinks Noctis relaxes a little in his arms at the touch. Even in sleep, the king’s presence has always calmed him.

Cor is less satisfied.

“ _Titus Drautos_ did this?” he demands, gesturing at Noctis. His voice is about as angry as Gladio has ever heard it, and it’s terrifying. Gladio nods. “Where is he now?”

“Dead in the alley he attacked Noct in,” Gladio says, not caring how blunt he sounds. Drautos deserves nothing more, and frankly Gladio thinks he deserves a lot worse. Forgotten in an unmarked grave in the wastes of Leide, perhaps. Three pairs of eyebrows raise.

“You killed Drautos?” his dad asks. Gladio would be insulted by the naked surprise in his dad’s voice, except that Drautos is, _was_ , considered one of the best swordsmen in Lucis, somewhere after Cor, and Gladio’s own experience pales in comparison. Gladio himself is a little astonished that he managed to not only kill him, but survive the fight as well.

“I found him about to _behead_ Noctis,” Gladio spits, rage rising in him at the memory. “Of course I killed him.”

Regis flinches, and Ignis makes a disapproving sound.

“Let’s get Noctis settled, and then you can tell me exactly where this happened,” Cor says. “I’ll bring a team of Crownsguard out for damage control.” Gladio is grateful that Cor doesn’t even try to take Gladio away from Noctis’s side, because there’s no way on Eos anyone is separating him from his charge right now. Leaving him alone with Ignis for the first few minutes after he’d been revived had been hard enough, even as he’d recognized the reason for Ignis’s order.

He lets himself be ushered into the medical room they had set aside and prepared for Noctis, the king following behind him. One of the Citadel doctors is waiting for them inside, and he frowns at the sight of Noctis asleep in Gladio’s arms.

“We had to use a phoenix down on him,” Gladio says, fighting to keep his emotions in check. The doctor nods, some of the worry clearing from his face. “He lost a lot of blood before we got to him. He’ll probably need a transfusion.” Gladio sets Noctis down on the bed, grimacing as said blood smears, stark against the white sheets.

He steps back to give the doctor access to Noctis and to let Regis hover. The doctor eyes him as he takes up a guard position by the door.

“Go get yourself cleaned up,” the doctor says, even as he turns his attention to Noctis. “You’ve done your job; we’ll take care of him from here.”

His first instinct is to refuse, but his gaze skips to Regis, who nods. “You’ve done well, Gladiolus. There’s nothing for you to do here, now. Let the doctors do their job.”

Gladio grits his teeth, but bows to his king before leaving the room. There’s not much he can do in the face of an order from the king, and he remembers as he steps back into the hall that Cor still needs to debrief him.

The Marshal is waiting for him. Gladio quickly fills him in on the basics of the situation, including the exact location of the attack, where he and Ignis had left Drautos’s body. Gladio hopes no one else has found it in the meantime, but luckily the alley was a fairly isolated one in a sparsely populated part of the city. Probably the reason Drautos chose it for his ambush. Gladio wonders how long he had been planning the attack, waiting for the right moment, and the thought makes his blood boil.

Cor rounds up the team he must have summoned while Gladio was in with Noctis and the doctor, and promises a more thorough debriefing when he is back. They need to move as quickly as possible to contain the situation. This particular case is clearly in the Crownsguard’s jurisdiction, but if they can avoid getting the city’s law enforcement involved at all, that is to be preferred. Less paperwork, and less chance of information leaking to the press before the Crown is ready to make a statement. A betrayal of this caliber will shake the population, and any press needs to be handled delicately, especially with how close Drautos actually came to killing the crown prince permanently.

With Cor and his team gone, the hallway feels empty. Less people to protect Noctis, but also less to be suspicious of. Gladio still feels uneasy around anyone he doesn’t explicitly trust, and that list is much, _much_ shorter than it had been before Drautos’s betrayal.

“How are you holding up?” Ignis murmurs. Always trying to mother everyone around him, even when he himself is in just as bad of shape. Gladio almost scoffs, but doesn’t want to see Ignis’s face close down like he knows it will if he reacts that way.

“Fine.” Ignis’s skeptical look isn’t much better. But how Gladio is feeling isn’t important right now. Noctis and his safety are the only things that matter.

* * *

Ignis suppresses a sigh at Gladio’s stubbornness. He should have expected as much - the Shield’s propensity for feeling guilty over things that aren’t his fault is legendary - but he had still hoped that he might have _some_ sense.

He moves to adjust his glasses and stops as he realizes his hands are still covered in Noctis’s blood. He decides to try a different tact, and allows the sigh to escape. “I suppose both of us could use a shower.”

“You go,” Gladio says. He crosses his arms over his chest, hiding his wince well enough that if Ignis wasn’t looking for it, he probably wouldn’t have seen it, and settles into a power stance in front of the door to Noctis’s medical room. “I’m not leaving Noctis unguarded.”

Ignis raises his eyebrows and looks meaningfully at Clarus and the handful of Crownsguard standing at attention in the hallway. “He’s hardly _unguarded_ , Gladio, and we’re in the center of the Citadel.” Gladio simply tightens his jaw in response. Ignis sighs again. “Very well. We can go in shifts, and I’ll concede to go first if you agree to let me take your place guarding Noct so you can clean up once I’m done.”

Gladio looks about to protest, so Ignis growls, “Do you doubt my ability to protect him?” It’s a cheap blow, Ignis knows that it’s not what this is about, but Gladio is hard-headed enough to need that kind of prodding every once in a while, and Ignis is not above guilt-tripping.

Gladio makes a face like Ignis took one of his daggers and stabbed him in the chest with it. Ignis refuses to let the bite of remorse get its teeth in him, and he stares Gladio down until the Shield drops his gaze.

“Fine,” Gladio mutters. Satisfied that Gladio will hold up his end of the bargain with Clarus as witness to his agreement, Ignis makes his way through the Citadel to his rarely-used suite of rooms on the residential floor reserved for Noctis and his retainers. Like Noctis and Gladio, he prefers his apartment in the city away from the chaos of the Citadel, but he does keep his rooms fully stocked, including several spare changes of clothes in various formality levels, in the case of unforeseen circumstances. Dealing with royalty is rarely predictable.

Ignis hadn’t realized how much he’d been repressing until he’s in the shower and watching Noctis’s blood run off his body in pink rivulets.

He’s held it together for Noctis and Gladio and the sake of his image as the advisor to the future king, but here, in the safety of his rooms with the pounding of the water to wash away and drown out any evidence, he breaks down. He has to brace himself with a hand against the tiled wall of the shower and presses the other one over his mouth to help muffle the sob that escapes his throat.

He’d naïvely thought, or at least convinced himself, that one time was enough, that the Marilith attack and subsequent Imperial attack on Tenebrae had run out Noct’s supply of near-death experiences. Of course there had been others, minor death threats and assassination or kidnapping attempts, but not like _this_ , not ones leaving Gladio and Ignis cradling Noctis’s still body while kneeling in a pool of his blood. And the worst part is, he knows somewhere, now, that it probably won’t be the last.

Ignis scrubs harshly at his hands and arms, trying to get the stains out of his skin and the drying blood out from under his nails. It’s hard to tell if he’s successful, with his skin turning pink from the friction and the heat of the water, and he doesn’t stop until his hands are raw and stinging. He still feels that he’ll never be rid of it, the blood of failure on his hands from letting his charge, his _brother_ , be killed.

Noctis had _died_. His prince, the center of Ignis’s world and the only thing that mattered, had stopped breathing. His heart had stopped beating by the time Ignis had pulled him from Gladio’s shaking arms, torn apart by the sword of a man who had sworn oaths of loyalty to the same crown Ignis had.

He stifles an uncharacteristic snarl of rage, shoves it down under the pain and guilt, and it’s not difficult, with how those emotions are already choking him. He lets himself wallow, a stolen moment of weakness, before taking in a deep breath of humid air and straightening under the spray of water.

Noctis had died, but Ignis had brought him back. He hadn’t been too late to save him, and Ignis clings to that thought above the rest of the clamoring guilt. He has to, or he won’t be able to face himself in the bathroom mirror once he finally accepts that the scalding water won’t get him any cleaner.

For now, though, he lathers more soap everywhere Noctis’s blood had touched him, and wishes that it could wash away the memories too.

* * *

Gladio looks almost stricken when Ignis returns, and he glances between Ignis and Clarus’s hard gazes as though looking for sympathy before sighing when neither of them give. He surrenders his post in front of Noctis’s door to Ignis with a grumble. He moves with a barely-perceptible limp, slightly more pronounced than it had been earlier.

Ignis waits until Gladio is well out of sight before approaching Clarus, who had watched Gladio’s retreating back with a slight frown and is still staring down the hallway after his son.

“You are aware that your son is injured?” Ignis says. Clarus sighs and turns to look at him.

“Of course. He is not nearly so good at hiding pain as he thinks he is, not from me anyway. Do you know what happened?”

Ignis shakes his head. “I was not present for the fight. He called me in a panic after Noct - ” Ignis cuts himself off, swallowing hard against the image burned into the back of his eyelids of Gladio cradling Noctis’s body in that alley. Clarus sets a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Ignis shakes himself. He adjusts his glasses, embarrassed at the lapse in control. “I suspect broken ribs or another non-lethal chest wound. Perhaps a leg injury as well, considering the limp. Even as guilty as he feels right now, he would not ignore anything that posed an immediate danger to his life, not now that Noct is safe.”

“I would hope not, or else I would have failed in teaching him. Taking care of himself is just as important as guarding Noctis. He can be of no use to Noctis if he’s injured.”

“Did he say anything to you while I was gone?” Ignis asks, already knowing the answer before Clarus shook his head.

“It is unlikely he will say anything without prompting, and even then he is unlikely to be completely open, especially with me.”

Ignis looks at Clarus in surprise. “Surely he knows that you of all people understand what he is dealing with.”

Clarus shrugs. “Knowing that and allowing himself to ask me for help are two very different things. He’s as stubborn as his mother was.” A fond, bittersweet smile crosses Clarus’s face, and Ignis looks away, suddenly feeling like an intruder. He’s not sure how the conversation ended up here, and he’s even more uncertain what he should say in response, or if he even should. For all his political acumen, old grief is something he does not know how to handle well. Like Noctis, Ignis has no memory of his own mother, and the topic of Gladio’s was not one that the younger Shield ever let come up.

“Will you talk to him?” Clarus asks, and Ignis looks up at him in surprise.

“I do not think he will take it well coming from me. I have no authority over him.”

“No, but you are his friend, and that will make it easier for him to accept it, I think. He speaks highly of you.”

Ignis had not been aware that he was a topic of discussion in the Amicitia household. It makes some amount of sense, considering how closely Gladio and Ignis work together in their service to Noct, but Ignis has always seen Gladio as someone who did his best to leave work behind when he went home. It has been the cause of some tension between them actually, as Ignis is incapable of separating any aspect of his life from Noctis. He recognizes that, to some degree, his approach is perhaps unhealthy, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Noctis is the single most important thing in Ignis’s life, and the fact that he doesn’t always seem to hold the same level of personal importance in Gladio’s - Gladio, Noct’s Shield, sworn to his service not only on an individual level but also in bloodline and ancestry and ancient magics - irritates Ignis to some degree. It is perhaps the main point of contention between them, though their methods of handling Noct’s lack of responsibility is another significant one. But despite their vastly different approaches to their jobs, he knows that Gladio does take his duty to Noctis’s protection seriously or else this conversation wouldn’t be happening.

“I will do my best,” Ignis finally says. Clarus smiles faintly but not unkindly at him.

“That’s all I would ask.”

* * *

Gladio clenches his fists tightly and has to force down the urge to punch the mirror in his suite’s bathroom. Adding glass cuts to his knuckles is the last thing he needs right now, and the cleanup necessary from shattering a mirror would delay his return to his charge’s side even more than this forced break will. His skin itches at being away from Noctis’s side, his instincts roaring at him that he needs to _be there_ , needs to be ready to defend him from any threat, no matter how minor. He hates that he can’t trust even Ignis and his own father, the man who guards the _bloody King of Lucis_ and has a far better track record than Gladio does, despite the limited amount of years Gladio has spent at Noctis’s side.

He drives his fist against his thigh at the unbidden return of the memory of Noctis bleeding out in his arms. He’s failed too many times already. Noctis isn’t even an adult yet and he’s already _died_ on Gladio’s watch.

As many times as his dad tells him that Gladio is not allowed to take any responsibility whatsoever for the Marilith attack, considering that Gladio was not even a teenager yet and had not yet come into Noct’s service at the time, he still feels a small amount of guilt over it. But this. This is _entirely_ Gladio’s fault, and he feels like he’s drowning in the guilt. He never should have let Noctis leave his sight, should have paid more attention to his other senses once he had, should have checked on him earlier, should have had stronger healing items on him. That he had to call _Ignis_ to bring a phoenix down to save Noctis stings his pride.

Looking back now, there were so many ways he could have avoided or at least mitigated the damage Noctis had taken, and he is ashamed that he didn’t do any of them. Noctis’s injuries should never be worse than his own. Shield is both a title and a very literal job description.

Now that he’s alone, as much as he’d rather not be, Gladio finally allows himself to react to the steady, throbbing pain in his side and chest, the results of his own, lesser injuries. He carefully peels his shirt off, sticky with a combination of Noctis’s and his own blood. He winces as the wet fabric pulls away from and reopens the slash in his side.

It’s not deep, Drautos’s sword had barely nicked him, and Gladio doesn’t think it needs a potion. He’ll just bandage it after his shower and call it good. The more pressing concern is his ribs.

He carefully feels his ribcage, sucking in a breath when he pushes somewhere tender. His side is starting to bruise, ugly shades of dark under his skin, and if the pain wasn’t enough to diagnose what’s wrong, the bruises are. At least two ribs are broken or cracked, he thinks. They aren’t displaced, as far as he can tell, and though breathing hurts, he can manage just fine. He’ll just take it easy. Noctis won’t be in any shape to train for a while, between the blood loss and his mental state, so that will give him time to make sure there’s nothing worse wrong with his ribs. He doesn’t want to waste a potion, or risk the bones setting wrong if they _are_ slightly misaligned, and he also doesn’t want to take attention away from Noctis, who needs it more than he does. And in some twisted part of his mind, Gladio thinks that the pain is a fitting punishment for failing his prince, even if it doesn’t compare to what Noctis went through.

Gladio has never died. He’s never taken a fatal wound or been brought back from the brink by phoenix fire. He knows it’s disorienting and exhausting, but even watching Ignis bring Noctis back isn’t enough for Gladio to begin to comprehend what it feels like. He sees it again when he blinks, Noctis on his knees in front of _Titus freaking Drautos_ , blood spilling from the much-too-large hole in his chest. Noctis’s back arching under the power of those flames in a way that couldn’t be good for his spine and his scars. Noctis crumpled at Drautos’s side, mourning the death of a traitor and unjustly afraid of Gladio’s reaction to his grief.

Noctis has faced death too many times in his short life. He’s not even an _adult_ yet, for Shiva’s sake! Not that Noctis being an adult would make the image of him with a sword through his chest any _easier_ , but Gladio’s blood boils at the thought of children being targeted for an adult’s sins in an adult’s war. Gladio would gladly have taken that blow himself, both to spare Noctis the pain of the wound and to spare himself the sight of Noctis injured that way.

He’s glad the current Lucian monarchy doesn’t severely punish Shields for mistakes, that the king won’t call for his blood in retribution for each drop of Noctis’s that was spilled. There’s legends, of course, of Shields to cruel kings who were literally branded as failures if they couldn’t prevent their charges from getting so much as a scratch. But he knows that Regis will do nothing but congratulate him on killing Drautos, and Noctis will tell him to shut it if he so much as tries to apologize. His dad might give him a lecture on paying closer attention to Noctis at all times, but that will be the extent of his chastisement, and Gladio knows it’s not enough.

He knows Noctis will brush it all off, might even _thank_ Gladio, like it’s not his fault he _died_. The prince doesn’t have enough of a backbone to tell him off, as much as Gladio wishes he would. He wants Noctis to rail at him, to blame him, to curse him for not acting sooner. His guilty conscience _needs_ it, and he knows he won’t get it. So he will suffer the pain of his injuries healing naturally as some form of penance instead, inadequate though it may be.

Stepping into the shower is an unexpected hardship. Now that he’s let himself feel the pain in his ribs, every movement hurts, and now he’s noticed a throbbing in his knee that he hadn’t been aware of before. He must have wrenched it at some point during the fight. But he can’t deny that washing all the blood off him, his _and_ Noctis’s, is a relief.

Washing out the slice on his side hurts, the water stinging as it hits, and he’s careful not to get soap in it. His blood runs freely, now that the clots that had barely formed have reopened, but he knows it’s important to clean it out to avoid infection, and he hasn’t lost enough blood by far for it to be dangerous yet.

A bandage and clean clothes later, Gladio feels more like a person again, despite the heavy guilt still clawing at his insides. He eyes the discarded pile of bloody clothes with distaste; he’s not sure any of it can be salvaged. Regardless of if they can be or not, he decides he doesn’t want to see them ever again, so he bundles them up in a trash bag to take out later. They’ll be on lockdown in the Citadel for the foreseeable future, until they can ascertain whether Drautos was working alone and root out his accomplices if he wasn’t. He’ll have plenty of time to clean his suite later. For now, he just wants to return to Noctis’s side as quickly as he can.

Aside from his desperate need to be beside Noctis, Gladio doesn’t know how long Cor and his team will be gone, and he wants to be there when they return. They will report directly to his dad and the king, who should both still be with Noctis, so that is where Gladio will need to be.

He practically runs through the halls on his way back down to the medical wing, or as much as he can without showcasing the limp that threatens him in the stabs of pain with each step, and during each wait for the elevators he is almost tempted to take the stairs. For the sake of his ribs and his knee, he doesn’t, and he knows the elevators are faster anyways, even if he chafes at having to wait for them to arrive.

He slows to a more dignified walk when he turns the corner into the hallway Noct’s room is located in, not willing to have Ignis and his dad witness him rushing. Neither of them look convinced, and Ignis makes a show of glancing at his watch.

“Nothing happened while you were gone,” he says. “Noctis hasn’t even woken yet.”

Gladio frowns. “Should we be concerned about that?”

Ignis opens his mouth to respond, but Clarus beats him to it. “Not necessarily. He’s been through something highly traumatic, and even with the magical healing, his body’s instinctive response is to shut down and rest to repair itself. He lost a lot of blood, and that alone will make him tired. High level restoratives are also draining, especially during your first experience with one.” Clarus’s gaze softens. “I know you’re worried, but Noctis is _fine_. He’s in the best hands he possibly could be right now, and he is perfectly safe.”

Gladio looks away. He knows his dad is right, but he doesn’t want to admit that he knows that. That will mean admitting that he is overreacting.

“Has the Marshal checked in yet?” he asks instead.

“He is en route to the scene, and it does not appear that law enforcement has been notified of the incident yet. We may yet be able to avoid the press hearing about this before we deign to let them.”

“They need only know that you foiled Drautos’s assassination attempt,” Ignis says softly, soothing a fear Gladio hadn’t even realized he was beginning to feel. He blinks as he turns to Ignis, who looks as stoic and unruffled as ever now that he’s not covered in Noctis’s blood. Gladio wishes he was half as composed as Ignis appears to be.

Despite the gratitude he feels at knowing his shame won’t be made public knowledge, it doesn’t sit right with him. He’s about to protest when his dad grips his shoulder and leans in to speak only for his ears, and perhaps Ignis’s, as he is the only other person standing close enough to hear.

“This incident will shake the public. It is just as important to uphold the image of a strong and unwavering regime as it is to be transparent with our citizens. There have been plenty of attempts on Regis’s life that got far closer than we ever let the public know, for the sake of their faith in us. And though it may omit some details, it is not a lie. Without your presence, Drautos undoubtedly would have succeeded.”

It’s backhanded praise, but there is an undercurrent of pride in his dad’s voice despite Gladio’s clear failure. He’s almost afraid to ask, but he has to know.

“Has His Majesty ever…” the word sticks in his throat for a moment before he chokes it out, “ _died_ on your watch?”

His dad looks at him with sympathy in his eyes for a moment before he shakes his head. “He has come close, but no.”

The cloying pressure of failure threatens to smother him, and he turns his face away, barely biting back a curse. He can feel Ignis’s calculating eyes on him, and he wishes his fellow retainer would leave. Ignis, as much as he is a fully-fledged member of Noctis’s retinue and takes on the duties of guarding Noctis when Gladio is not around, is not ordained as Noctis’s protector. He may feel guilty when things happen to Noctis, but it does not make him a traitor to his duty. Not like Gladio, whose sole purpose in life is to keep Noctis safe.

“Gladiolus.” His dad’s voice is gentler than Gladio deserves. “Dwelling on the past will do no one any good. Learn from it, recognize your mistakes so you do not repeat them, but do not allow it to steal your future. You cannot change what has already happened, much as you might wish it.”

“What good am I, if I can’t even protect him? If I can’t even _save_ him?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“You did save him,” his dad says, at the same time Ignis speaks up.

“We are meant to be a team. Alone, neither of us has a chance at keeping him from harm. We are both only one person on our own, and Noctis needs a retinue. To guide him, to guard him. You cannot carry the responsibility for him alone -”

“You’re not his _bloody Shield_ , Ignis!” Gladio snarls.

“There is no shame in calling on me for help!” Ignis snaps back, and Gladio recoils. He catches sight of the other Crownsguard in the hallway carefully _not_ looking at them, and he adds embarrassment to the list of emotions he’d rather not be feeling at the moment.

Ignis takes a breath, adjusting his glasses as he does so, before fixing his sharp eyes on Gladio’s face.

“We are both here to support Noctis in whatever way he needs us, and we are here to support _each other_ in that goal. When you are with Noctis, I trust you to do your job, and I trust you to call me if it becomes something you cannot handle alone, as you did today. In the same way, I hope you trust me to do _my_ job with Noct, and to call for your aid should I require it.” Ignis’s voice sharpens as he continues. “However much I trust your abilities as Noctis’s Shield, that faith will mean nothing if I can not be assured that you will reach out to me if you are ever out of your depth.”

The words are biting, and they hit just as hard as Gladio is sure Ignis meant them to. It is a harsh rebuke, delivered with all the precision Ignis has honed over the years of navigating the political minefield that is the Lucian court. Rarely has Gladio heard it turned against one of their group, and he is unsure how to respond.

Before he can gather his thoughts, Ignis sighs, his glare softening slightly as he speaks again. “The king does not rely on your father alone. To put the pressure of the protection of a king solely on the shoulders of one man would be to unfairly burden him. You will burn out and crumble under the weight if you try to take on all the responsibility for Noctis on your own.”

Ignis steps closer and places a hand on Gladio’s arm in a rare - towards anyone other than Noctis - gesture of physical affection. “Allow me to help you.”

Gladio is aware of his dad’s eyes on him even with his own gaze downcast.

“Yeah, sure,” he mutters to Ignis. Ignis has a valid point, and Gladio knows it. And in the moment, he hadn’t hesitated to call Ignis, nor will he ever hesitate in the future if Noctis’s life is on the line. He’s just angry at himself because he shouldn’t have _had_ to, he _wouldn’t_ have had to if he’d carried the proper curatives on him. And he resents Ignis for doing this _here_ , with an audience, even if the Crownsguard are doing their best to pretend they aren’t listening.

Ignis pulls his hand back but lingers in Gladio’s space. “I care for Noctis, as you do. I care about his well-being and I care about yours, both for Noctis’s sake and your own.” There’s a warning in that statement, mildly said though it is, and Gladio hears it loud and clear.

He risks a glance up at Ignis. Despite the severity in the set of his face, his eyes are concerned as he meets Gladio’s gaze. His hair is still slightly damp from his shower, and he hadn’t bothered to style it back up like he’d had it earlier that day. Now that Ignis has let his guard down just slightly, Gladio can read his own weariness through the cracks in his careful façade. If Gladio is going to be forced to concede this argument, he’s going to do his best to drag Ignis down with him.

“Back atcha,” he says, with as much forced lightness in his voice as he can manage. He tries for a grin too but fails. Ignis quirks an unamused eyebrow at him. “You can pretend you’re unaffected all you like, Iggy, but you won’t fool me.”

“I am pretending nothing,” he says, his tone carefully neutral, but he adjusts his glasses as he speaks, and one corner of Gladio’s mouth finally turns up in a smirk.

“Sure you’re not. When’s the last time you had a decent night of sleep?”

“Do not try to turn this back around on me. _You_ are the one trying to hide injuries.”

“Shoulda figured you’d notice. But it’s nothing major.”

“You are limping like Noctis on a rainy day. Did you wrench your knee?”

“Like I said, it’s nothing major.”

“You are also breathing too shallowly. Do take care not to collapse your lungs and make the problem worse.”

It is Gladio’s turn to raise an eyebrow. He hadn’t realized he had stopped taking full breaths. He concentrates on breathing deeply on his next inhale and winces at the pain of the effort.

“As I suspected. How many ribs are cracked?”

Gladio glares at Ignis, but grumbles out, “Two, I think.”

“And is that the extent of your injuries?”

Gladio thinks about lying, but he freezes at the look on Ignis’s face, and his bravado deflates.

“There’s a shallow cut on my side, but it’s been properly bandaged,” he says defensively, but he knows he’s lost this fight. So much for taking Ignis down with him. He should have stopped when he was… not ahead, but less behind. All he’s done is dig his own grave deeper.

Ignis hums thoughtfully, his keen eyes raking over Gladio’s face in a manner that is slightly unsettling in its thoroughness.

“Gladio, depriving yourself of proper medical care will not help Noctis recover any faster.”

“I’m not - ” He cuts himself off before Ignis’s look of disapproval can fully form. He groans and drags a hand down his face. “Ugh. Fine. I know, you’re right. I just…” He doesn’t know how to defend himself. His excuses have always been flimsy, even to himself, and he doesn’t have the slightest chance of convincing Ignis with them. “I don’t like seeing him hurt, Iggs.”

“Nor do I. And I am quite certain that he would not appreciate seeing _you_ hurt either.”

“I know he wouldn’t,” he sighs. He vividly remembers Noctis’s visceral reaction when Gladio received the scar on his face. He had merely been counting on Noctis not being as perceptive as Ignis. “I’ll get it taken care of.”

Seemingly satisfied with Gladio’s answer, Ignis nods but pauses as he’s about to turn away. “And you are correct that I… perhaps do not get enough rest on a regular basis.” He offers the concession like an apology, and Gladio accepts the olive branch with a nod of his own.

The door to Noctis’s room opens then, and Gladio jerks to attention before realizing it’s just the doctor.

“His Highness is still sleeping,” he says before Gladio can even open his mouth. “His blood pressure was lower than his usual, so he’s having a transfusion, but other than that he appears to be fine. We’ll do another evaluation on him once he wakes up to make sure there’s no lingering symptoms or a negative reaction to the transfusion, but he should be clear to move to his own room after that. Unless something else comes up, I see no reason to keep him here.”

He looks at Gladio, who is itching to get back into the room to sit at Noctis’s side, and frowns. “He should be allowed to rest, so do try to limit the amount of visitors in his room.”

“We won’t disturb him,” Ignis says, beating Gladio to his protest.

“Good. I will be back to check on him in about half an hour, but his nurse will be monitoring him throughout the transfusion, and I will be available if anything else should arise.” He gives Gladio a meaningful look before he turns to head down the hallway. But although Gladio is considering having his own injuries looked at in the wake of Ignis’s rebuke, it will not be before Noctis has woken up.

As soon as the doctor is out of earshot, Ignis explains himself before Gladio can turn on him.

“Sitting quietly at his bedside will not disturb him.” There’s a faintly mischievous gleam in his eyes that Gladio appreciates, and he finds himself smiling in return.

Now that Ignis has bled the anger out of him, all Gladio feels is relief and a bone-deep weariness. He will sleep well tonight, if by some miracle he is spared the nightmares. The guilt is still there, he knows it always will be, but at least for now it is manageable.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr at [prince-noctisluciscaelum](https://prince-noctisluciscaelum.tumblr.com)!


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